


Bang And Blame

by Jenwryn



Category: Death Note
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Genderswitch, Romance, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-14
Updated: 2009-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:37:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mello isn't at all happy when she comes home; in fact, she's downright cranky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bang And Blame

**Author's Note:**

> The story title comes from the R.E.M. song of the same name. It was chosen purely because the double-meaning amuses me, not because the lyrics have any connection, heh.
> 
> Completely AU, with none of the "driven to be L's heir" business, okay?
> 
> Written for a Valentine's Day meme on LJ. Unbeta'd.

_Life's a bitch_, she thinks, as she stomps through the front door and, after a moment of impatient buckling and unlacing, throws her tall back boots roughly against the wall of the narrow hall. The boots were expensive, but the viciously ugly green of the wallpaper is cheap, and the chance of the latter actually damaging the former is pretty damn slim. Besides, right now, she's pissed off, and she really doesn't give a fuck either way, a fact which she doesn't mind broadcasting to the entire apartment building via the loud _bang_ she'd punctuates her shoeless-ness with, slamming the front door closed behind her, and jamming the locks jarringly into place.

Her feet encased in sheer black stockings, Mello pads down the lino of the hallway tetchily. She knows _full damn well_ that Matt must have heard her come in, and the dull curve of light from their pitiful kitchen-dash-loungeroom-dash-bedroom means that he can't even pretend he's already asleep, seeing as she _also_ knows that it will take him longer to disentangle himself, from whatever shoot-em-up it is that he's playing, than it will for her to march from here to there; they've played this game before.

As it is, he has the hide to gaze up at her with a sheepish expression on his face, from where he's seated on the sofa, and is clearly pretending to have been buried deep in work, on the laptop balanced upon his knees, even though the PS3 is still shutting itself down to his right. How dumb does he actually think she is, then?

“What?” he demands protestingly, when she gives him the Look.

Snorting, she flings herself, all hips and slender legs, from the doorway to the refrigerator, grabs a small bottle of chocolate milk, and then sashays her way back from the fridge to the sofa. She shoves his laptop off of his knees, onto the cushions to his right, and sits herself down in its place, opening the drink as she goes (the seal snaps satisfyingly), and taking a swill. When she lowers the drink, she has milk on her lips, and Matt's hands on her hip bones.

“I'm annoyed with you, dickhead,” she observes, though she doesn't push his hands away and, instead, wriggles slightly against him, trying to get more comfortable, and enjoying the feel of the roughness of his jeans against the contrast of her silk stockings. Her leather skirt hikes a little higher up her thighs and Matt's body informs her, in no uncertain terms, that he _really _likes the view.

Still, he has the decency – or, perhaps, the wisdom, seeing as he knows her temper well enough for that – to change his expression to one of grudging apologetics. “I _did _text you,” he says. “And it's not as though I didn't warn you that I probably wasn't going to make it. Go bitch at Ross if you don't like it, he was the one who kept me there for hours hacking the F.B.I.'s shit.”

Mello finishes her drink, reaches behind her to place the bottle on the top of a vertiginous pile of game boxes, and then smiles wickedly. “Oh, I already did, trust me.”

Matt knows better than to ask her how _that _conversation went, although Mello can see, from the look in his eyes, that he already has a fair idea. He simply raises his eyebrows, though, and also his hands, sliding his warm fingers upwards, from her hips, and along her sides, creeping his thumbs up beneath the leather of her vest-top, and rubbing circles on her bare skin.

“I'm still cranky at you,” she warns, but it's more like a purr than a threat, now. “You were _supposed _to meet me for lunch, you know. It's not like Valentine's Day happens more than once a fucking year, how hard could it be?”

God, she can read his face so well, and now she sees his perpetual disbelief that she even _cares_ about things like that – that she, of all people, gets excited about Christmases and Halloweens (although Easter, really, he can fully comprehend), seeing as she mocks so much else, even friendship, even love, biting her jagged nails and scraping them along his skin rather than caress him, despite all the shit they've been through together. But this day, this one day, she _does_ believe in it. Weirdly, despite his disbelief, he seems to somehow _get _that and, either way, he still stays silent, despite the look on his face, and, now, just grins at her. She wonders if he has any idea what that grin does to her, seeing as she'd be damned before she told him in so many words, though she can feel her face softening as she gazes at it, and, seeing as he can read her almost as well as she can read him, she supposes he already knows.

She leans back against the security of his left hand, which has curved its way around her body to press firmly against the small of her back (she loves his hands, too, loves the feel of them, loves the skill of them), while his right hand has disconnected from her body completely, and reaches to pull a box from beneath the cushions beside him. The wrapping is a little banged-up, because of the way she'd thrown his laptop against it, but she doesn't care, just leans easier against him, can feel her very being steadying at his touch, and watches as he unwraps the gift for her. The familiar buzz which is Matt-and-Chocolate rises up beneath Mello's skin, as she sees the box's contents; the sweets are quality, she can _smell _it – probably Dutch, though maybe German – and she gazes at them lustfully, as Matt's deft fingers select one, and offer it up to her.

The remaining shadow of her anger melts away as she opens her lips and takes the chocolate into her mouth, and his fingers with it, the slight-salt of his skin mixing with the heady sweetness of the cacao as she swirls at them with her tongue, and sucks. This is what she wants, this is what she always wants; the way that Matt does this to her, the way that he takes her bad day and turns it inside out, the way that he takes her disgruntlement with the universe and turns it into nothing but need of him, even when it's all his fault in the first place; the way he seduces her mind and body purely by _existing_. She doesn't even know how it works, but she doesn't give a shit, just wriggles even closer against him, accepts the next chocolate he feeds her – soft, with a caramel centre – and then leans in, and licks at the corner of his mouth, her tongue teasing at his lips until he opens them, and meets her kiss.

“Happy Valentine's Day, Mel,” he murmurs, when they part to breathe, and she presses him back against the sofa with the flats of her palms, and kisses him harder, wanting to get the taste of him, the feel of him, and memorise it for the thousandth time; wanting to leave marks on his skin and prove that he is hers, and hers alone. She bites at him, sucks at him, trails kisses gently and rough, smoothes her hands through his hair and knocks his stupid goggles loose, presses her body against his, and wishes she could have the whole of his soul beneath her skin and mix it with her bloodstream.

By the time he's finished undressing her, and his hands-mouth-lips are caressing her body, and _her _hands are fighting with the buckle of his jeans, the chocolates have been long forgotten, on the table behind them. She fights him, welcomes him, whispers his name, and melts inside when he moans hers right back at her. And then it's just Matt, Matt, Matt, and her need of him, as her teeth nip at his neck and she rises up, and takes him inside of her, warm and hard and filling; she rolls her hips and _groans_. Just Matt, only Matt, only ever Matt.

He was all she'd ever wanted, anyway.


End file.
